I was woken up by the insistent ringing of the doorbell and groaned loudly. My head hurt like hell like it did most mornings. I stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring the ringing and knocking of the front door. I slide open the cabinet door but there wasn't anything left.
“Well, crap,” I muttered. I must've used up the last of it yesterday. I winced as the door was knocked hard enough to make the glass shake.
“Jesus, I'm coming,” I murmured, yanking the door open. I blinked a few times as the harsh mid-day sun assaulted my blue eyes. I hoped my pupils weren't doing a crazy dance.
“Finally,” The grumpy mail man muttered and he handed over a letter and a electronic device to sign for it. Seemed a bit much for a single letter, but I signed and handed the device back.
“Thanks,” I said. The mail men let out a grunt and continued heading towards the next house. I closed the door, grateful for the dimmer light inside and brushed a hand over my face. I glanced at the mess in my living room and reminded myself to clean it later. If this damn headache went away anytime soon that was. I needed to get a repeat prescription and fast, I thought. I hated the dullness of reality when I didn't have the drugs in my system. I glanced at the letter in my hand and tore it open.
“What the fuck?” I muttered, was this someone's idea of a sick joke? I hadn't picked up a base guitar in over six months. Finally giving up on the whole idea of being in a band. Of course most employers aren't interested in hiring someone who dropped out of college to spend two years pursuing a hopeless career. I read and re-read the words and tried to figure out where I'd heard the name before. I walked into my room and turned my laptop on to google it.
Instantly there were over a hundred hits for the guy. I chose the wikipedia link because I figured it would tell me the basics.
“Holy shit...” I whispered. Rody Olivers was one of the most successful managers in the world. I glanced at the letter and smoothed out where I'd crumpled it slightly. So some big manager was supposedly interested in hiring me to join a band with a two other unknowns? I'd call this a prank, except none of my so-called friend could afford the expensive envelope or to have something signed for. I looked at the date, time and place we were meant to meet. I either used up the last of my money for the travel to get there. Or to get more drugs to survive the next day. I returned my laptop to my desk and left the letter on top.
It didn't take me long to rummage through my garage and find the old thing. I hooked it round my shoulder and felt the familiar weight. Without thinking, I strung out a line of basic chords. I chewed on my lower lip and tried to decide. The idea of spending one day without some kind of chemical in my system made me almost panic. But what about that letter? If it wasn't fake maybe I was finally getting my shot at everything. I repacked the base guitar and picked up the phone. After re-reading the letter so many times, I'd memorised the number.
“Rody Oliver's PA speaking, how many I help?” a chirpy female voice asked on the other end. I took a deep breath and decided.
“My name's Kyle Dewhurst. I got the letter and I'll come,” I said. She made a delighted sound and started talking about complicated contract stuff, that I was really too tired to think about. Though in all honesty, I was more alert today than I had been these past months. When she finally finished her babble, I said a polite goodbye. I decided as a last thought to pinch myself. Nope, not dreaming.